


Want/Need

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Community: hw_exchange, M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2010-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It will only cause Holmes to draw into himself even more, curl himself tighter around whatever pain he is trying and failing to hide. And that, he does not want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want/Need

**Author's Note:**

> My Holmes/Watson 09 fic exchange pinch hit, written for barush , who wanted h/c, angst (sorry about the slightly bittersweet ending), worried Watson, established relationship. Um, yeah. That's what I managed to fit in, at least.

Watson's a light sleeper; a useful habit he picked up in the service, along with the ability to sleep just about damn well anywhere, up to and including standing against walls and on camel-back. Both abilities have served him well, living with Holmes. Especially living with Holmes.

He wakes easily, but he doesn't wake quickly, unfortunately. Which is why it takes him far too long to make sense of his room in shadows, with a darker shadow bending over him. He blinks, muddled and uncertain, and things slowly become clear. "Holmes," he says, and why on earth should he be surprised at this.

"Watson," Holmes replies. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake you, but I am rather in need of some assistance."

"Good god, Holmes, what time is it? No, don't answer; I don't even want to know." Holmes words sink in, and Watson feels himself become far more awake quite abruptly.   
"What do you mean, some assistance?"

Holmes looks distinctly uncomfortable for the barest moment. "It's nothing, really, only I know you complain endlessly when I don't let you stitch things up right away. I wouldn't have bothered you if I wasn't so sure you'd be bothering me if I didn't …"

"Holmes," Watson cuts off Holmes' slightly nonsensical rambling. "For goodness sake … wait, stitches? How bad is this? Come, let me see." He sits up in bed, and Holmes uncurls his arm from where it had been pressed to his side. Even in the dim illumination of distant streetlight that shadows the unlit room, he can see the darker splotch against the pale fabric. Watson curses, then leans forward and tugs the shirt from trousers, lifting it to better see the wound.

It's long, pulled open along his ribs, bleeding steadily but slowly. "Damnit, Holmes," he whispers. "This is hardly nothing." Sharply, he says, "Move," and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, rising. He moves to the door, and turns back to Holmes. "Sit. Not on the bed. And stay put."

He hurries to his office, pulls open the bag that goes with him on his usual rounds and hastily tosses a few more items inside, then returns to his room. Holmes has settled himself in a chair pulled up to the bed, sitting almost sideways in it, one leg curled under him. Watson brightens the lamps as he enters again; Holmes glances up. "Off with it," Watson says, nodding at the stained shirt, and hesitates. "If you can." Holmes snorts and sets about ridding himself of the shirt with only the slightest of half halted movements showing how much it must pain him. He tosses it aside, and Watson hopes there wasn't enough blood on it to stain the carpet; not only would that indicate a far more serious wound, he fears they've tried Mrs. Hudson sorely enough lately.

He gets his first good look at Holmes' wound, pushing at Holmes' elbow until Homes raises it, tucking his hand behind his head. It's long, running from just shy of the kidney to the base of the bottom ribs, deep at the back, losing depth as it runs forward. Its looks like someone was going for either kidney or lungs, and Holmes just happened to move quickly enough. Another half inch to either side, or deeper, and Holmes would have come close to bleeding out before he made it home. He grabs a wad of batting, soaks it in alcohol. Watson is blessed with true surgeon's hands; they do not shake even when he considers the horrible and myriad possibilities of what if. His voice is not so steady. "How did you manage this?" he asks.

Holmes hisses at the sting of antiseptic. "Investigating, dear Watson," he says. Watson glances up at him, but Holmes' face is hidden by his raised arm. Watson grunts, unsurprised and unsatisfied, but knowing if Holmes is not willing to speak of it, he's not up to the task of prying it out. He works in silence, Holmes carefully breathing slow and steady as Watson cleans the wound thoroughly and stitches it shut with a neat ladder of black thread, barely responding with so much as a flinch.

Holmes' body jerks suddenly, unexpectedly, and Watson wasn't even touching him. He looks up; Holmes' face is still hidden, but as Watson watches, Holmes' head droops again, and he jerks himself back awake. Watson frowns.

Holmes does not share Watson's sleeping abilities; he finds it difficult to fall asleep under normal circumstances, and he's never come close to falling asleep while being stitched up. Suspicion creeps into Watson's mind. He tidies away the thread and needles, then tugs down Holmes' arm. Unfolds it, brushes fingers and eyes across the bruised looking skin at the inside of his elbow, and there it is, a slightly raised, reddened mark. "Holmes," he breathes, disappointed, shocked, angry.

Holmes' pulse jumps beneath his fingers, ratcheting up into a higher speed, but he stays silent and still. Watson drags his breath in, then lets it go in a diatribe.

He goes on and on, _Why do you do this to yourself?,_ and _What were you thinking?,_ and _Do you even realize the danger you put yourself in?, I have never thought you such an utter fool, Do you have a death wish?,_ and finally Holmes, who has been sitting quietly, unmoving, speaks. "Watson,' he says, and there is some quality to his tone, something that's a shade too weary, almost desperately tired, something that sounds as though he is on the edge of tears, that Watson's words still in his lungs.

He looks sharply at Holmes; Holmes' eyes are closed, his brow furrowed and his face very still, tight, brittle. He's hunched into himself in a manner Watson has never seen, and he looks almost small in the chair, like he's huddled against something. He looks … defeated. It's unnerving. It's unnatural.

Watson stops his pacing, drops to the bed before Holmes with a sigh. He reaches out, wraps his fingers around Holmes' hand. Holmes doesn't open his eyes, doesn't glance up, but he makes a small sound, more of breath than anything, small and short and painful. It's hard to see Holmes like this; it's unfamiliar, and there's more than a wound hurting Holmes, more than the morphine dragging him down. "Holmes," he says quietly. "What is it?"

Holmes shakes his head, his eyes still tightly closed. Watson's hand slips up, his thumb brushing the thin bruises of eyelids, the hollow of bone at Holmes' brows. Holmes leans into the touch. "I'm tired, Watson," he says. "I'm just tired."

That's not it; that's not all of it. But that's all he's going to get out of Holmes for now, at least until Holmes decides to tell the rest. He wants to drag the rest out, wants to jump up and storm about, putting his things away sharply and violently, expressing his dissatisfaction with Holmes' half answers with every movement; he knows Holmes will read it clearly. He knows too that it will only cause Holmes to draw into himself even more, curl himself tighter around whatever pain he is trying and failing to hide. And that, he does not want.

Instead, he laces his fingers tighter with Holmes', draws him forward, insistently, until Holmes relents and slides out of the chair to rest on Watson's thighs, falling forward against him, all angles and bones, too slender and somehow far more fragile than he should be, his head curving down to bump against Watson's. They share quiet breaths, and Watson eases them down, sprawled across the width of the bed, his legs hanging off the edge, Holmes limp atop him. It's hardly comfortable, but even as he considers shifting he feels the tension begin to dissipate from Holmes body. Holmes curls his fingers into Watson's skin, kisses him like he's dying for breath and he can only take it from Watson's lungs. He knows what this is; it's the closest to an apology he'll ever get. It won't stop Holmes from doing it again, but for the moment, he's regretful. So is Watson.

Holmes rolls away, pulls Watson after him, repositioning them so they actually fit on the bed, and when Watson's hand slides down the curve of Holmes side, when his fingers encounter bandages and he presses, ever so slightly, Holmes hisses. Watson withdraws, "Your side, Holmes," but Holmes doesn't let him get far.

"I don't care," he says, and Watson murmurs a halfhearted protest against his skin. "I don't _care_," he says again, insistent, not quite in control of himself, and Watson gives in. Again. Always.

He tries to be careful, be gentle, cautious, but Holmes wants to be used, is not content to be loved. He presses into Watson's hands, seeking after a little more pleasure, a little more pain, a more acceptable reason to hurt. Watson won't give it to him, and he wonders if that is not crueler. He wishes more than ever he knew what set Holmes off; while he's prone to moods, this is not like him at all. There's something far more desperate here than his usual ill advised actions would produce. He keeps the game going, always one step short of what Holmes is asking for, catching his movements and turning them away from harsh, making them less than painful. Holmes figures it out soon enough, and hurls a curse at Watson, challenging him, hoping for a reaction even as his body cringes away from it.

Watson stills, draws his hands away from the taut skin of Holmes' hips, catches Holmes' face in both hands, catches Holmes' eyes. "Holmes," he breathes into the slight air between them, "please. If you want something, you need only ask." Holmes opens his mouth, no doubt for something cutting, and Watson speaks right over him, "But. However much you might think you deserve it, you don't need to be punished for your actions by me. I will always give you what you need first, and only then, what you want." He slides one hand down from Holmes' cheek to the mad beating of his heart. "I do not love you less for your flaws."

Holmes' face stills, then shifts as emotions flash across it, too fast to register properly. His eyes glitter oddly, then close, and when Watson leans down to kiss the trembling muscles of Holmes' throat, he tastes salt.

He wonders how often someone has told Holmes he is loved; not enough, he thinks, and he resolves to do so far more frequently.

He is a doctor; he would be far less of one if he did not at least try to fix all of Holmes' wounds.


End file.
